Rise
by wrldpossibility
Summary: Yeah, I couldn't just leave Linchpin alone. This is an alt-ending to the near-drowning scene, from Beckett's POV. I don't know about you guys, but wow...I thought this ep could have been so much better. Here's my version of just a tiny portion of it.


Rise (1/1)

A/N: An alt-ending of the near-drowning and dock scene in Linchpin. Liberties taken with dialogue and order of events.

She hadn't panicked as the car hit the water. She's been trained not to, and what kind of cop would she be if she didn't revert, instinctively, to her training? (She's almost panicking now.)

The water is rising; her eyes follow the crest of it sloshing side-to-side as the car rocks on its descent. Castle's dunked under in search of the gun, and she wonders when it will occur to him that her 'shoot the seatbelt' plan is about as sound as one of his alien abduction theories. (But she knows him. He'll pursue a task like a dog chasing a tennis ball, and she needs to give him that.)

Her ears pop. She yanks at the seatbelt clasp again. Then again. The water reaches her chest; it must be ice-cold, but it's curious how she hardly feels it. It's tinted yellow; she's viewing the river as though through the lenses of her target practice eye-wear.

Castle comes up for air empty-handed. She feels his hand on her thigh, half gripping, half grasping. She turns to say something to him—what, though?—but he only draws a breath and dunks back down. She reaches after him but misses. Her arms are clumsy. Maybe the cold _is_ getting to her.

"Castle!" Can he hear her, under the seat? "Castle." The water's to her chin; if she's going to say what she needs to say, it will be—must be—now. She claws at the churning ripples to her right—it's where his foot is kicking up—and grabs at him. He rises, and she watches his face appear under that amber water, eyes wide and questioning as if to say, _you're wasting time._ (Is she ever.)

"I love you," she says, but his head is still submerged, and she can't tell if he hears her. _"I love you,"_ she repeats, and for good measure, "I'm sorry," the words forming around a mouthful of water that makes her gag. She draws one more breath before the water rises over her face. Castle's only response is to dive back down, stomach to the floor, arms sweeping for the gun.

She grips the wheel, bracing for the worst. Because it's coming, isn't it? The car continues to sink—it feels like an eternity is passing—and it's getting darker…first just spots of blackness, then more, and more, until she's seeing stars.

There's a yank on her hip, and for an instant, the darkness splinters into shards of white before sliding back into place. Another yank, and she sees Castle pulling at her belt, gun in hand. It hurts, the yanking, and he needs to leave her alone. "Go," she says, because now that he has her gun, all he needs to do is shoot the window, kick a foot through, and swim. _"Go!"_

Only, no matter how many times she says it, the word never leaves her head. The darkness cuts, penetrating her eyes. Ribbons of black tighten around her head. Castle yanks the belt again, holding it out away from her body with one hand, white under the water. He aims the gun at the exposed belt.

He's going to shoot his hand off. _"No!"_ But again, the word gets trapped somewhere between formation and execution. _"Castle, no!"_ There's a shot; she sees it rather than hears it—how odd—and his hand is still there—whole—and then another shot, and then she's rising up out of the seat like a balloon. Two more shots, and then the blackness wins, covering her like a cloth.

On the surface, Castle shakes her—hard—and when her head whips backward, she sees a light so bright she reels from it. It follows her, sweeping across the top of the water until it catches them, and he says 'Harbor Patrol, thank God'. He has her under the arms, one forearm braced flat across her chest, holding her above the waterline, and she thinks she should help, she should swim, but she just can't. She lets herself float there, lets Castle tread water all by himself, and if she could, she would crawl right into him. Seconds later the boat has halted and the rescuers have jumped, sending a wake of water up over her head. She chokes again, and then she's taken from Castle, and she's glad-he doesn't have to hold her anymore-but even back on deck, two wool blankets aren't enough to warm her.

She doesn't see him again until they're deposited back at the pier. "You look like a drowned rat," he informs her, and she knows this is what they do, this banter, but she suddenly has no patience for it. He's discarded his blanket somewhere and found dry clothes. Next to him, she _looks_ like a drowned rat. She takes the coffee he offers.

"Thanks. And Castle..._thanks_."

He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. She has the ridiculous notion he's going to fall into the water. "You'd have done the same for me."

She would have, yes. A thousand times yes. "Probably."

"They say I was hanging onto you to the bitter end," he adds, and she looks up, startled. When she makes eye contact, he's looking at her-no, watching her-very carefully.

"Then you don't remember...finding the gun?"

His eyes hold her gaze so tightly, she fights the impulse to step back. "It's all a bit fuzzy. Lack of oxygen, and all that."

Disappointment sluices up from her gut, catching her by surprise. Suddenly, she's going to—

"Don't look." She turns away, toward the end of the pier, and loses what must be a quart of river water.

He turns toward her instead of away, and his lack of regard for a simple request makes her angry, then hopeful, then sad. She's the one who's done this to them; she's taken his signature trust and openness and optimism and managed to harden him into something resembling…her.

It's enough to make anyone sick.

He touches her lightly, and she turns around, wiping her mouth on the hem of the blanket still draped over her shoulders. It slips to the ground, and he frowns. "Here. Let me."

"No, I got it." She bends for it just as Castle does the same, and their foreheads crack together midway to the ground. After the near-drowning, the impact feels like a hammer to her head.

Castle swears, and stumbles back. "You always make everything harder than it needs to be!" he yells, and as she rises, hand to her head, she can't believe how genuinely angry he looks.

"Then why don't you just _listen_ to me?"

He points a finger at her, looks like he's winding up to a really good comeback, then lets his hand fall, breathing out hard through his nose. When he answers her, his tone has taken a 180. "I did." The both look down at the blanket lying in a heap on the pier. "Listen to you, I mean. In the car." Even a stranger off the street wouldn't take this for a conversation about professional courtesy anymore. "Did you mean it?"

She nods. She's afraid to speak, but takes the chance. (It's a start.) "Did _you_ mean it, in the cemetery?"

He looks taken aback for an instant, but has the grace to let it pass. "Yes."

Suddenly she's shivering so violently she can't move. He bends again, slowly this time, and retrieves the blanket. She lets him wrap her in it, arms tucked in burrito-style. "It seems to me," he says, "that we can either shelve this conversation until the next life-threatening moment, which is sure to come, or we can continue it while _not_ underwater or under fire. Perhaps—and I know this is drastic—over dinner?"

She leans into him, her entire body falling for him—into him, she means—until her head rests against his neck and her shoulder fits into the curve of his arm. One shift of weight, and she'll fall flat on her face, but she trusts him. She _has_, for a very long time.

"I'd like that," she answers.


End file.
